by Paul S. Kemp
This must be interesting, Cale thought.
He tuned out the crowd noise and focused his hearing on the two men. When he heard them speaking Elvish, he had to contain his surprise. No doubt they felt secure in speaking the language of the elves—few Selgauntans had ever even seen one of the fair folk, much less understood their tongue. Cale silently thanked them for their arrogance. He had learned the expressive, intricate language of the elves at nineteen. A long time ago, when he had been a very different man.
“Body sucked as dry as a Chondathan raisin,” said Thildar, drunk and too loud. “My man in the household guard tells me a shadow streaked out the window just as the guards burst in.”
At Thildar’s overloud tone, Owyl glanced about in irritable nervousness. The mage-merchant’s eyes fell on Cale but passed over and by him as though he didn’t exist. Unnoticed furniture, Cale thought with a smile.
Owyl slipped back into the common tongue. “Did you say a shadow?”
“Yes,” replied Thildar, again in Elvish. “Or at least so he tells it.” He waved a hand dismissively and gulped from his goblet. “But you know servants. In any case, that is neither here nor there, as they say. The important thing is this: with Boarim Soargyl and the Lady dead, you’ll need someone else to move your wares across the Inner Sea. I can help with that. No doubt we can reach an amicable agreement.…”
Cale ignored the rest of the conversation, mere commercial negotiations of no interest to him. He found the news about Lord and Lady Soargyl only mildly surprising. The Soargyls had not made a public appearance in over a tenday, a rarity for them, and rumors had been flying. Through his own sources, Cale had heard a story of murder in Sarntrumpet Towers, though nothing about a shadow. He would have to relate this news to Thamalon. With Boarim Soargyl dead and his untested son Rorsin heading the family, the rest of the Old Chauncel families would scramble to take over any vulnerable Soargyl interests.
Like vultures, he thought, eyeing Thildar with contempt. Perhaps Thamalon could offer Rorsin an alliance? Cale could not hide a grim smile at the thought. Boarim would spin in his casket. The Uskevren and Soargyl lords had long been bitter enemies. But times change, thought Cale, and so do men. Despite the acrimonious history, he had no doubt that Thamalon would offer Rorsin an alliance, if it was in the Uskevren’s interest.
Thildar’s description of the bodies stuck in Cale’s mind and sounded alarm bells in his head: Sucked dry as a Chondathan raisin. He had heard disquieting rumors recently that some of Selgaunt’s underworld leaders had died similarly—three Zhentarim fished out of Selgaunt Bay, their bodies pruned by more than immersion in the sea. Zalen Quickblade, former leader of the Redcowls, found dead in an alley with his body collapsed in on itself. Too many similarities for a coincidence and too well targeted for a random predator. A new player looking to establish himself? he wondered. Or an old one grown bold?
He knew that murder within the walls of Sarntrumpet Towers would make things difficult for everyone. Such a daring attack on a noble’s home indicated recklessness, stupidity, or fearlessness. Selgaunt’s Scepters—the city’s watchmen—would be prowling the streets for the culprit, and they wouldn’t be overly careful about who got caught in the melee.
He would have to warn Jak so that the little man would know to lie low. Independent rogues always suffered the most when the Scepters went on a purge. Guilds could bribe Watch Captains and buy safety; independents had to hide or hang. Cale would also have to leave word with Riven to arrange a meeting with the Righteous Man. The Night Knife guildmaster might know more about what was going on—
His stream of thought abruptly stopped. Disbelieving, his gaze followed a blond haired, handsome young man moving casually through the crowd. Dressed in a finely cut tan doublet with green under-sleeves, black hose, and high boots, the man looked much the same as every other young noble in attendance. Except that he was casing the attendees. He moved among the young noblewomen, flashed a smile, laughed, and no doubt commented on the beauty of their jewelry.
He was picking his marks! Cale could not believe it. Professionally, he had to admit that the would-be thief had skills. Only Cale’s long experience and trained eye allowed him to notice anything amiss.
Spotting Larajin nearby again clearing dishes, he hurried over to her.
“Larajin—”
She jumped as though he had poked her with a pin. The tray of chalices she bore shook alarmingly. “Oh! Oh.” When she turned and saw him, her voice quavered. “Yes, Mister Cale?”
“Give me one of those.” He nodded absently at the tray, his eyes still on the young thief.
“Mister Cale?”
“A chalice, girl,” he snapped. “Give me a damned chalice.”
She recoiled, green eyes wide, and he felt a swift pang of guilt. She was just a girl, after all, and she was trying. He softened his tone. “I’m sorry, Larajin. Something else is on my mind. Here.” He removed a chalice from the trembling tray and filled it from the bottle he held. “And you take this.” He placed the wine bottle on the tray. “Remove it all to the kitchen and take your dinner.”
“But—”
He turned on his heel and walked across the hall toward the thief. Waiting until the boy stood alone, Cale approached with the chalice. “A drink, young sir—oops.” Feigning a stumble, he bumped into the boy, quickly felt him for steel—one buckleknife beneath his belt—and dumped the wine over the boy’s doublet.
“Oh, forgive me, young sir.” He pulled a kerchief from his breast pocket and daubed at the stain. “Forgive me. I’m so sorry.”
“It’s all right,” replied the blushing thief, looking about in embarrassment and trying to push Cale away. A few heads turned their way, curious, but quickly turned back to their own conversations. That the boy had not exploded at Cale for such clumsiness—as any of Selgaunt’s nobility would have—only confirmed his suspicions.
Cale continued to apologize and daub awkwardly at the stain while the boy continued trying to push him away. “It’s all right, butler. You can go—”
Cale looked up abruptly as though struck with an idea. “Young sir … that is, if the young sir will be gracious enough to allow me to escort him to the kitchens, Brilla the cook will see to the stain. I’m sure she will be able to remove it entirely.”
“That won’t be necessary—”
“Please young master, I insist you allow me to correct my clumsiness. Please?”
The boy looked down at his stained doublet, hesitated, then gave a shrug. “Very well then, butler. But let’s be quick.”
“Follow me, young master. The kitchens are this way.”
Cale led him through the double doors into the forehall, but rather than turning right to go through the parlor and into the kitchen he turned left and strode toward an unoccupied receiving room.
The thief looked about absently as they walked, no doubt noting portable valuables. “How far are the kitchens, butleaaggh—”
Without warning, Cale whirled on him, gripped him by the throat, and pinned him against the wood paneled receiving room wall. The boy kicked and gagged but Cale held him fast. He stared into the boy’s wide brown eyes and slowly lifted him from his feet. Desperate wheezes squeaked from the thief’s throat. His red face began rapidly to turn blue.
“I know exactly what you are and what you’re doing here,” Cale hissed into his face. The boy feebly shook his head in the negative so Cale squeezed harder. The wheezes stopped altogether. The boy thrashed but Cale’s iron grip could not be broken. “Don’t deny it. I can always spot an amateur.”
Indignant at first, the asphyxiating thief at last nodded. Satisfied, Cale eased his grip, but only slightly. The wheezes returned while the thief’s blue face faded back to flush red. Cale stared straight into his frightened eyes. “Boy, if your left hand moves one inch closer to that buckleknife in your belt, I promise you that you’ve already taken your last breath.”
The boy went wide-eyed and let his hand, which had been in
ching surreptitiously toward his belt, dangle limply.
“Here’s how it’s going to be,” said Cale. “You listening?”
The boy nodded, but looked on the verge of passing out.
“I don’t know who you work for and I don’t care, but after tonight this house is off limits. Understand?”
Another desperate nod.
Cale gave a final, meaningful glare, and released him. The would-be thief collapsed to the floor, gasping.
“Collect yourself. I’m going to show you out.”
“But my coat,” the boy protested. “It’s cold.” He realized immediately that he should not have opened his mouth.
Cale stared at him. The boy’s eyes found the floor. “Forget it,” he muttered.
He climbed slowly to his feet and Cale led him through the receiving room to a side door that opened onto the patio. He pulled the door open and the blast of cold, Deepwinter air set the boy’s teeth to chattering.
“Through the gardens, left to Sarn Street. Don’t let me see you again.”
The boy nodded, crossed his arms against the cold, and hurried out.
After closing the door and securing the deadbolt, Cale congratulated himself for solving a problem without bloodshed. Ten years ago, he’d have taken the boy into the gardens and put him down, just to be thorough. I have changed, he realized with a soft smile. Thazienne would be proud.
Crouching amidst the tall shrubbery, Araniskeel hungrily eyed the two humans. The tall one said something and shoved the smaller one out of the door of the great house. Light, sound, and life spilled from the open door like blood from a wound. Araniskeel growled, low and dangerous, and a soft chorus of snarls sounded behind him in answer. The power of the two humans’ souls glowed in his eyes, tempting him, whetting his appetite to feed. The tall human’s soul shone with power, half of it white, half of it shadow, as though it fought a war with itself. The smaller human’s soul, though a mere gray spark in comparison, elicited an anticipatory purr from the demon.
The fifteen former humans hidden in the gardens with him sensed his pleasure and shifted eagerly. “Feed us,” they whispered. “Feed us.”
Araniskeel turned to face them. Silence, he thought to them, and they fell on their faces to the dirty snow, abject. He regarded them with contempt, as he did all humans. Araniskeel’s master Yrsillar had possessed the leader of these humans—these Night Knives—and named himself the avatar of their god. Now these ignorant fools literally fell over themselves in their frenzy to serve. Yrsillar had taken their zeal and used it—used it to twist their bodies, warp their minds, and pollute their souls until they had become tools suitable to his purposes. Now, not even Araniskeel would feed upon the twisted, black things that served as the corrupted humans’ souls.
The door to the house slammed closed. The sound jerked him back around. The tall human had retreated within, but the short one remained outside. Silence, he projected again to the corrupted humans. As always, they obeyed. They soundlessly rocked back and forth, hungry for flesh, their claws alternately clenching and unclenching fistfuls of frozen earth.
Patience, he thought. Soon you will feed.
The small human, his arms crossed against a cold Araniskeel did not feel in this form, muttered to himself and walked from the house toward them. Araniskeel allowed his hunger to build, savored the growing anticipation that would soon be sated. The small human neared and walked past unsuspecting. Araniskeel stepped from the shrubs and reached for him.
The human’s startled gasp ended almost as soon as it began. Araniskeel flashed a claw and opened the human’s throat. His wings beat in ecstasy as the paltry soul pulsed screaming from the wound and into his being. Araniskeel’s black form swallowed and utterly devoured the small human’s life-force.
“For Mask,” the corrupted humans chanted into the dirt. “For Mask.”
Finished with the feeding, Araniskeel let the dried body fall to the pavement. Feed, he ordered.
Growling eagerly, the corrupted humans leaped to their feet, dragged the corpse into the bushes, and began to feast on the dried flesh. Their mindless gobbling delighted Araniskeel, so he allowed their frenzy to continue until only the tattered clothing remained of the corpse.
As the corrupted humans fed, he savored the lingering sweetness of the human’s soul. In all the world, only humans had such a complex, delicious life-force capable of sating the perpetual hunger of his kind. Yrsillar, Araniskeel, and Greeve would turn this city of humans into a slaughterhouse. Tonight’s feeding would be the first of many.
More souls resided within the house, he knew. Many more. He could sense them through the walls even at this distance. He sensed their essence on the winter wind. Araniskeel did not know why his master had chosen this house as a target and did not care. There was food within. That was enough.
Come, he said to the corrupted humans. There is more food within.
Their long, purple tongues lolled over gray lips and needle-sharp fangs. He took pleasure in their anticipatory slavering. “Food,” they hissed. “Food.”
CHAPTER 4
THE FEAST OF SOULS
Pleased with himself for not harming the would-be thief, Cale walked back through the receiving room hall and into the parlor. The thick Thayan floor rugs—each depicting red dragons in flight—felt wonderful beneath his sore feet. The cozy feeling of the parlor tempted him to kick off his boots and collapse into one of the richly upholstered chairs and retire for the night, but he resisted the urge. Instead, he strolled around the room and admired the thematic oil paintings that adorned the walls. The first painting depicted a roiling sky, against which elf knights mounted on hippogriffs warred with orogs mounted on wyverns. Each subsequent work represented a different point in the aerial battle, with the elves finally defeating the orogs in the last painting. Cale smiled as he moved from one to another, captured by the artist’s skillful rendition of the combat. Thamalon had commissioned the half-elf artist Celista Ferim to paint the works two years ago. Ever since, Cale had found himself drawn to them.
Apart from his own sparsely furnished bedroom, the parlor had become his favorite room in Stormweather. Rarely used by anyone else in the family, at night it seemed his own private refuge—just he and the elves. When his troubled conscience kept him awake and he did not feel like reading, he often came down here to think, to lose himself in the unblemished heroics of a war that had occurred only on canvas.
Bathed in the dim light of a single candle and the soft glow of embers in the fireplace, he collapsed into his favorite overstuffed chair, put his feet up on the hassock, and allowed himself a moment to enjoy the solitude.
This would be a good time for a smoke, he thought wistfully. If only I smoked. He thought fondly of his pipe-toting friend, Jak Fleet, and smiled.
The distant bustle of the ball carried through the hall and nearby double doors, but the parlor itself was quiet, removed from the celebratory tumult. The candlelight flickered off the four suits of ceremonial armor that stood silent guard in each of the room’s corners—each suit was engraved with a crossed hammer and sword on the breastplate, the arms of some long forgotten Selgaunt noble’s house. The parlor’s decor reflected his lord’s love for the history of other peoples, places, and times.
Maybe that’s why I like it so much, he thought. Because I’m from somewhere else.
Unlike most of Selgaunt’s Old Chauncel, Thamalon did not consider the city such a beacon of cultural superiority that other cultures were not worth studying. Though most obvious in the parlor, the whole of Stormweather fairly brimmed with unique antiquities drawn from the four corners of Faerûn. The library alone was stocked with treatises from all over the continent, some written in languages even Cale did not understand. Though he despised Selgaunt generally, he loved Stormweather.
He allowed himself a few more moments of peace before forcing himself to rise. He adjusted the cast bronze dragon figurines atop the walnut mantle, walked the short hallway to the adjacent main
kitchen, and pushed open the doors.
As he had suspected, the kitchen staff sat eating and chatting around the cleaver-scarred butcher’s block. The moment he entered, the eight young women on staff—Brilla tolerated only women on her staff—gave a start and the talking fell abruptly silent. Cale smiled knowingly. Because he allowed Brilla a free hand in running the kitchen, he usually only made an appearance when something had gone wrong with the meal.
Eight pairs of exhausted, apprehensive eyes stared at him and nervously awaited his next words. None of them said a word.
“Everything is all right,” he assured them, but the apprehension written in their expressions did not change. He looked from one pretty face to the other and realized that he did not know most of their names. Have to remedy that, he thought. He had always made it a point to know everyone in the household, even kitchen help.
When at last he found a familiar face among the girls, he grabbed her with his gaze.
“Aileen, where is Brilla?” Aileen gave a slight start when he spoke her name.
“In the pantries, Mister Cale,” she responded immediately. A slight, very attractive girl with wispy blonde hair and bright green eyes, Aileen had been on staff since the summer. “Shall I go and get her?”
“Thank you, Aileen.”
She jumped down from her stool and hurried out the other side of the main kitchen, toward the pantries. Cale winced when she began to shout.
“Brilla! Brilla! Mister Cale wants you! Brilla!”
While he waited, the rest of the young women halfheartedly picked at their plates and studiously avoided eye contact. They must have heard that he was an ogre.
After a few minutes, Brilla waddled defiantly into the main kitchen, a dead chicken clutched in one thick-fingered hand, an apprehensive Aileen clutched in the other.
“Mister Cale,” she acknowledged with a nod. She scooted Aileen back to her stool. “Go, girl, finish your meal. I told you he doesn’t bite.”